


Egyptian Nights

by ravenhairedtrickster



Category: Fury (2014)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenhairedtrickster/pseuds/ravenhairedtrickster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He might like Egypt if he were here under different circumstances. </p><p>He chokes back a sob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Egyptian Nights

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dying to write more Fury. I don't know whether I'm doing it any justice.

It’s a listlessness that Boyd can’t describe, when there’s no shelling and the night air is thick and humid. A peacefulness that betrays the bigger picture, the seemingly endless dunes of sand, the craters like pockmarks across the desert. 

The war.

Boyd shifts onto his side. The Fury is like an oven and he can’t shake the feeling that they are all slowly being baked alive. From a hatch a warm breeze drifts in. Boyd can’t help but sit up. He follows the fresh air until he’s climbed out onto warm metal. 

Here Boyd sits perched on an edge, his legs dangling over the Fury’s side. In the darkness surrounding he can pick out the vague shapes of the other tanks. Their quiet is almost eerie, nothing but the occasional shift of sand in the gentle wind to make any noise, it’s something Boyd wonders if he’ll ever get used to again. 

The sky is vast, open from horizon to horizon, a stretching plain of constellations Boyd has never seen from his mama’s porch in the South. He traces each freckled pattern with heavy eyes. 

He might like Egypt if he were here under different circumstances. 

He chokes back a sob.

He can’t let them hear. They’re a brotherhood, a family and Boyd knows none would shame him for this, they’ve all done it. He presses trembling fingers to his mouth, succeeds in only muffling half the wretched keening that escapes his clenched teeth. 

“Oh Lord,” he shudders, gasping uncontrollably. 

He grasps the Fury’s edge, holding so tight his fingers ache, but he has to ground himself somehow.

There’s a shuffling and Boyd starts when Don climbs through the main hatch, the burning end of a cigarette between his teeth glowing in the dark. 

Boyd licks his lips, doesn’t object when Don settles beside him, passes the fag over. 

Taking a drag he shuts his eyes, leans against the shoulder Don offers and allows the nicotine to buzz through him. It’s a vice, the cigarettes, but Boyd admits he feels no less holy for needing them like everyone else in this mans army.

They take the edge off the horrors, off these long nights when he sits by himself on the Fury thinking of home, praying for forgiveness, remembering the nameless faces of the enemy he’s killed. 

He exhales after what feels like hours, the smoke swirling towards the sky as it leaves his lungs. He passes the cigarette back, feeling heavy then refreshed as he takes a gulp of clean air. 

Don’s fingers run along his before they pluck the cigarette from them and Boyd gives Don a lazy smile, his eyes full of tears yet unshed. 

A calloused hand finds Boyd’s grimy cheek, grease smeared, sand and sweat and dirt marring it but Don doesn’t seem to mind. A thumb runs over his lips slowly, gently, a ghost of a touch, Boyd’s eyes slide shut. 

“At attention, soldier,” Don says softly. 

Boyd straightens his back, his eyes opening to focus on Don’s shadowed face - Don snubs the cigarette out on Fury, flicking the butt into the night. 

“You haven’t called me that since day one,” Boyd murmurs, teases even though he’s still so close to tears. He leans into Don’s touch, smiling against his palm.

“Do you prefer it?” Don asks as though he actually doesn’t know the answer. He gives Boyd a grim smile in return, grasping Boyd’s jaw and titling his head up.

From this angle Boyd is again looking at the stars, studying them, his tears leave tracks in the grime upon his face and don’t go unnoticed despite the darkness. “No, say my name,” he whispers his throat bared, Don’s fingers on his chin.

Don moves close and Boyd smells smoke, gunpowder and spice as lips find the corner of his mouth. 

“Say it,” he begs his hands clutched together on his lap as though in prayer. 

Don’s face his rough and it scrapes Boyd but he finds himself inviting that little discomfort, so miniscule compared to all the others. Don guides his face down and he loses the stars in Don’s eyes. 

Lips find his own, slow in their exploration, like Don is trying to remember how their first kiss was, shell shocked and tasting of blood but still Boyd had held onto Don like his life depended on it. 

“Bible,” Don finally breathes, teeth worrying Boyd’s bottom lip. 

The Fury is hard beneath Boyd’s back and something is digging into his spine but he’s too preoccupied, his hand is over his mouth, stifling the needy sounds that threaten to escape him as Don laps at bared skin. 

“Top,” Boyd manages, his fingers pressing carefully into Don’s slicked hair. “Anyone could wake up.”

There’s a hint of panic in his voice. Rightfully so. They’ve never done it like this, on top of the Fury, Gordo, Grady and Red sleeping within, numerous other tanks nearby. There’s too much risk, too many possibilities, too many things that could go wrong. 

Don leans back, tugs Boyd up. 

“You’re right,” he mutters, fishing another cigarette out. He lights its with his zippo, sighing contently albeit a tad frustrated. 

Boyd leans in, taking a drag for himself before settling back down. He stares out over the horizon, at all the sand, the wind, having now picked up, trying to find purchase on his hair. 

“Think it’s worth it?” Don suddenly asks.

“Hm?”

“This, the war, what we do.”

Boyd stares up at the stars once more. 

“God has a plan for everything, everyone,” he replies, he blinks away tears. “We’re just one tiny stroke in a much bigger picture.”

Silence falls on them after and Boyd rubs sleep away sometime later as the sun crawls over the sand in blinding oranges and yellows. 

And when Don kisses him before sliding back into the Fury he tastes absolution in the form of cheap cigarette smoke; it fills Boyd’s lungs and he wipes away the tears before following.


End file.
